I like to picture Samantha Jones leaving Manhattan in a cloud of fury and Creed perfume, loudly declaring “New York is over – O-V-E-R” to her fellow first-class Virgin Atlantic passengers before casting around for someone to re-up her membership to the mile-high club with. New York is very much not over, of course, but I don’t find it hard to imagine that Sam would have had enough of it (and Carrie Bradshaw) after 40 years. There’s only so long one can realistically stay friends with someone who says things like “I’m more Coco Chanel than coq au vin” while also owning a pigeon-shaped handbag.
And God, Samantha would do well in London. She would be all over Annabel’s like a rash, for starters, taking “loos-in-the-mews” selfies against the Barbara Cartland-pink marble. Laylow would be another after-hours favorite, as would hotel bars—an ideal place to order “one martini, six olives.” Duke’s has the most lethal in the city—as noted in the leather-bound menu, no one is allowed more than two (although if anyone could charm head bartender Alessandro Palazzi into relaxing the rules, it’s Sam). I expect she would join at least one more staid private members’ club, too—perhaps The Arts Club, with its Lanserhof outpost, which no one has ever had the misfortune of leaving looking like “beef carpaccio.” She’s come a long way from impersonating Annabelle Bronstein to get into Soho House.
Speaking of Soho: Samantha would have a field day in its two-and-a-half remaining sex shops (“nipples are huge right now”), and be a regular at the Dean Street Express clinic (she learned the importance of sexual health screenings in “Running With Scissors”), before popping into Quo Vadis for a bottle of Chablis and half a dozen oysters. It’s Sam, after all, who helped Bradshaw and co-navigate the restaurant scene in Manhattan. Hard to imagine “Jonesy” agreeing to meet anyone, no matter how good their cheekbones/investment portfolio, at The Lobster Place.
She would be familiar enough with the River Cafe to have a favorite table within a few months (number four, most likely), and able to secure a last-minute reservation at Sessions Arts Club, St John, or Mount Street Restaurant, both for herself and her clients (who, in my mind, now include half a dozen dames, Richard E Grant, and at least one emotionally needy former Spice Girl), although she would probably be a weeknight regular at Farmacy (even back in 2003, she was trying to seduce Smith over “lawn in a bowl” at Raw, if you recall).
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